


Polaroids

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-12
Updated: 2005-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:28:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of polaraoids taken by one Sirius Black, the art can be found <a href="http://ladybelial.altervista.org/NINETTE/ninette1.html">here</a> - follow the olives! ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Polaroids

The pictures set an itch in my fingers, and so - I give you the crackpot story of Sirius' picture-taking weekend. It's a wee tale of ~800 words, written in this last half an hour, but heartfelt all the same. Happy birthday Ni! I'm sorry I didn't write something sooner :x:x:x

Sirius pins each polaroid to the noticeboard in the kitchen – stares at the murky, chemical surface of the snapshots and waits for faces to appear. He hoots each time the process works - which is every time, but if the clean sock and bogey incident of 1976 proved anything at all, it's that he treasures the capacity to be surprised – and babbles at length about the nature of his genius.

"S'Prongs! Prongs look, it's _you_ , mate! Immortalized, you manky-antlered piece of shit." He stands, hands on his hips, camera dangling from long, skinny fingers. "Damn, but your hair's a thing possessed. How's that woman of yours stand it? All over the pillowcases, I'd bet . . . "

'That woman' delivers a smack to the back of Sirius' head so hard he sees stars, and he quickly begins to sing songs about red-headed beauties to try and make amends. The only noticeable effect of his serenading is to confuse Peter, who asks James if Padfoot has a crush on Arthur Weasley.

Peter, the tricky bastard, is hard to pin down – he's always scurrying off to floo his bookie, or to write a private letter, fluttering his hands. Sirius is so desperate to see the poor lad get laid that he gives him space to pen whatever awkward love-note he's working on this time, and even suggests that calling Eleanor Pingerton a 'delicate flower' would be a sure-fire way to woo the girl, even if she is half-giant and built like the backside of a Quidditch shed.

Lily submits to being photographed just once and Sirius doesn't push his luck. The look of amused patience on her face when the picture develops is pretty damn cute (enough to make Prongs squirm and blush and mutter something about 'finest specimen of womanhood ever to grace the earth and beautiful, god, don't you think she's beautiful? And she does this thing with her tongue that . . . oh lads, what you're missing out on by not being me . . . ') but Sirius has first hand knowledge of how fast Evans' toleration can metamorphosize into 'I'll hex your nads clean off if you so much as begin that joke about an Erumpent, a Niffler, and a wizard, Black - don't _think_ of testing me, you ignorant bloody turnip.'

Sirius grins as he contemplates his growing mosaic. Doesn't matter if the rest of his clan are a bunch of photo-dodging bastards – Moony's where the action's at; Moony's his only real prey.

He took his first picture at 7.10am, after waiting seventeen minutes for Remus to wake and peer at him over the pillow. The peering is predictable, and Sirius loves it above most things (save cherry jam, of course, and snogging in the rain). He loves the way that Remus appears to be evaluating what manner of insanity lies coiled on Black side of the bed, and that morning's no exception. Sirius captures the moment on film, and laughs when the flash makes Remus flinch. There's swearing and thumping and a wrestling match after that – 'wrestling' being the mutually agreed upon term that masks the fact that tickle fights are still in vogue in the house of Black and Lupin.

He stalks Moony for the rest of the day – snaps a picture of him reading, and then a close-up of his chest because while books are terribly fascinating and all, it's bare skin that's Sirius' game. He snaps a picture of him making lunch, and another of him wearing a truly tragic polo-necked jumper (tragic not because it's an odd shade of green, although that's definitely troubling, but because it hides the Moony neck, and that's not bloody on).

It's late when he takes his favourite photo - once the flat is free of owl treats and Quidditch scores and the smile of ginger-tempered women who kiss his cheek before flooing home. He steals his favourite photo from folds of night, captures Moony asleep, mouth slack with dreams, blanket haphazardly clutched in one hand. Sirius smiles to think that he made this moment, conjured it with hands that skimmed and pressed, with kisses that summoned a desperate trembling, with whispers of pleasure, the rock of his hips, the slide of their bodies and sharpening cries. This is a Moony who's his alone, loved so deeply that he sleeps with abandon, sated and warm amid sweat-sticky sheets. Sirius smiles and sets down his camera, blows out his candle and curls up close.

The picture's on the noticeboard when Sirius stumbles to the kitchen next morning, and he studies it quietly, chewing on a nail. With a sudden burst of tenderness, he turns the Polaroid around, hides Moony away and flushes when Remus catches him in the act.

"You're daft," Remus whispers, smiling gently.

Sirius shrugs and tries to look nonchalant. "Maybe," he says, but steps into Remus' open arms all the same, pressing his face into Moony's neck as he shares a bashful smile.


End file.
